Chapter 7 #2
Then Inspector Slack from Scotland Yard took the stand. He testified that, despite a diligent canvass of the neighborhood, no witnesses came forward.
Julia was the last to give evidence. When the coroner’s assistant called her name and she stood, the dozy reporter at her side sat up and blinked.
Whispers and a short bark of laughter followed her across the room.
She spotted Chief Inspector Clark, Tennant’s superior in the detective department, standing in the rear with Inspector Slack.
Leary’s death was straightforward, Julia testified. Massive blood loss resulted from a broken whisky bottle thrust into his abdomen. She’d extracted pieces from the wound.
The coroner asked if she had anything else to add.
“Yes. In my hearing, the two men who carried Mr. Leary into my clinic spoke of threats they overheard uttered by men in the pub. Threats directed at the deceased.”
The six Irishmen at the back leaped from their seats and pushed out the door.
The reporter scribbled furiously. With the proceedings over, a scowling Chief Inspector Clark turned on his heels and exited, followed by Slack.
Julia stood at the door, waiting for the coroner to finish his business with the publican.
Shouts and catcalls greeted Clark and Slack as they made their way through an angry gauntlet.
The coroner, a balding, precise little man with steel-rimmed spectacles and a thin mustache, counted out the medical examiner’s standard fee: two pounds, two shillings. He handed her the coins, saying, “Well, Doctor Lewis, you certainly put the cat among the pigeons.”
“That hearing was a travesty,” Julia said.
“Slack should be sacked. Still, he has his uses.”
“Meaning?”
The coroner pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “He’s probably the Yard’s least energetic officer. Call him in if you don’t want answers.”
“Slack is aptly named.”
“The East End has little sympathy for an Irish victim. Slack will box up the evidence and stick it on a shelf.”
“Then they’ll have an Irish tinderbox on their hands,” Julia said, pocketing her fee.
The same morning on the Isle of Wight, Inspector Tennant sought answers at Osborne House, holding interviews in the office of the queen’s private secretary.
O’Malley’s telegram added Stanley Hackett to the inspector’s list of promising suspects, and the prince’s valet was the morning’s first interview.
Hackett arrived promptly, wearing a charcoal cut-away coat that showed off a royal blue, diamond-patterned waistcoat.
Tennant judged him to be in his middle thirties and more expensively suited than the typical manservant.
Full muttonchop side whiskers and a fringe beard didn’t altogether hide a receding chin.
The valet’s restless fingers fiddled with the knot in his tie.
The bump in Hackett’s throat jumped like a jack-in-the-box when Tennant asked him about his movements on the day Lizzie Dowling was murdered.
“It’s difficult to say.” Hackett pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead. “Probably tending to the prince’s wardrobe.”
“Probably or definitely?”
Hackett scowled, stuffing away the pocket square. “You can’t expect a fellow to remember one afternoon two months ago.”
“I think the day that an Osborne House servant goes missing and then turns up dead would linger in one’s memory. You don’t agree?” When Hackett didn’t answer, Tennant said, “No? Well, let’s consider a more recent day. Last Tuesday, the day her sister, Brigid Dowling, was murdered.”
“I …” Hackett pulled at his collar, and the stud popped and shot across the carpet.
Tennant retrieved it and handed the servant his mother-of-pearl fastener. “Tuesday is a half-day off for you, I believe. Where were you at two o’clock?”
“Walking in Hyde Park.”
“Observed?”
“I don’t know. Maybe someone saw me. I was there. That’s all I know.” Then an alert expression flared like a lighted candle wick. He lifted his chin and said, “I’d like to see you prove otherwise.”
Tennant held the man’s gaze, waiting. The manservant’s bravado proved fleeting.
He dropped his eyes and grasped shaking hands behind his back.
Then the inspector dismissed the valet and scribbled some awkward notes with his injured hand.
He left the study looking for the queen’s secretary, General Grey.
Tennant passed the household dining room and spotted the valet in agitated conversation with a tall, lean, broad-shouldered man in a dark frock coat.
The inspector found the queen’s private secretary in the library. Tennant described the servant he saw with Hackett and asked his name.
“That sounds like Michael Bolger, the house steward,” General Grey said.
“What are his duties?”
“Bolger hires the house servants and pays their wages. He orders all Osborne’s supplies. That includes everything from furniture and linens, the queen’s writing paper, to the barrels of flour used to bake our daily bread. Bolger superintends the delivery, storage, and dispersal of the lot.”
“An indispensable man,” Tennant said.
“He supplies the claret, brandy, and port that make the long evenings in royal service bearable.” General Grey smiled thinly under his drooping mustache. “Or nearly so.”
“Would he have had dealings with Lizzie Dowling?”
“Only to pay her monthly wages, as he does for the rest of the household staff. Other than that, I doubt it. The housekeeper supervised her work.”
“Thank you, General. I’ll speak to the house steward next.”
During his interview, Michael Bolger was as composed as the valet had been agitated.
A line from Shakespeare popped into Tennant’s head.
Like Cassius, Bolger had “a lean and hungry look,” gazing back from shrewd and calculating blue eyes.
Good-looking chap and knows it, Tennant thought, taking in his square, cleft chin and dark, curly hair.
The inspector asked him a few routine questions about his role at Osborne House. Then Tennant shifted to his movements on the day of Lizzie Dowling’s murder.
Bolger’s shrug was just short of insolent. “Going about my duties, as usual, I expect.”
“You knew Miss Dowling well?”
“She lined up for her monthly wages like the rest, but my duties do not include supervising the female staff.”
“Just now, I saw you in earnest conversation with the prince’s valet.”
“Mister Hackett is a friend of mine,” Bolger said. “He left his interview a little agitated. Being interviewed by the police isn’t an everyday event.”
“That was the only reason for your conversation?”
“That and cigars. Mister Hackett asked me to order the prince’s favorite brand from the Cowes tobacconist. His Royal Highness is smoking through his supply.”
“So soon? And the prince arrived only yesterday. Will Mister Hackett confirm your explanation if I ask him?”
“Certainly, Inspector.” The house steward said, his blue eyes unblinking. “Why wouldn’t he?”
Bolger had a military air about him. He stood before Tennant in a posture of parade ground at ease. “Are you a former army man, Mister Bolger?”
“Sergeant Bolger, sir, back in the day.” His eyes flicked to Tennant’s regimental tie. “Grenadier Guards?”
“That’s right. Brothers-in-arms. Thank you, Mister Bolger. That will be all.”
A smooth, plausible liar, Tennant thought. But lying about what? According to General Grey, Bolger was on the Isle of Wight the day someone in London murdered Brigid Dowling.
The middle-aged housekeeper was next. “How long have you served the queen, Mrs. Forsythe?” Tennant asked.
“I assumed my duties a year ago,” she said.
“Tell me about Lizzie Dowling.”
The housekeeper considered for a moment. “Lizzy was a kind young woman, Inspector. I liked her. She was thoughtful and observant about people. She noticed when things needed doing and stepped in. Quietly. Without overstepping, if you know what I mean.”
“I think I do.”
“If I thanked her, she’d say she was grateful to be here. I thought it wasn’t just words. I sensed she’d seen trouble in her life and counted herself lucky.”
“She gave you no hint about her trials?”
“No. I’m sorry, now. Sorry I didn’t encourage her to confide in me.”
Tennant asked about Lizzie’s friends, but the murdered girl had lacked a confidant among the servants.
“She kept herself to herself,” Mrs. Forsythe said. “But Princess Louise made a pet of the girl.”
“How so?”
“Her Royal Highness moved Lizzie to a small room in the princesses’ wing,” the housekeeper said. “Treated her like a lady’s maid rather than a parlor servant. It caused some resentment.”
“How much are we talking about?”
“Bruised feelings and petty sniping, Inspector,” she said. “Nothing that would lead to murder.”
“You heard the findings of the medical examination?”
“Yes. And before you ask, I have no idea who the father was.”
“She hadn’t made friends with the male servants? Mister Bolger, for instance? He’s a good-looking chap.”
Mrs. Forsythe smiled. “There’s a pecking order among servants, Inspector. Mister Bolger condescends to greet me if we meet in a hallway, but a house steward in a place like Osborne would take little notice of a servant girl.”
“Even a very attractive one?”
“I saw no sign of it. Now, the prince’s valet … he’s another matter. He has an eye for any comely female. But as far as I know, Lizzie never looked back.”
Tennant thanked her and turned his attention to the two equerries on his list, starting with Oliver Montgomery.
The tall, sandy-haired captain stretched himself on a settee and began with a sardonic joke about being arrested.
He crossed his legs and waved to the inspector.
“Fire away,” he said, looking as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
Tennant asked Montgomery about his movements on the afternoon of Lizzie’s death.
“No alibi to speak of. I took the floating bridge to the island’s western side. Rode to Yarmouth and back.”
“Did you see anyone you knew?”